


Winter will never come

by RickishMorty



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 16:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19299406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RickishMorty/pseuds/RickishMorty
Summary: "What should I do with you, Sansa? How many times will your cheeks will burn? "Jeoffrey grinned, shaking his head leaning on one hand, like a kindly father irritated by his daughter's constant whims and disobedience."Or maybe ..." a sudden flash caught the cerulean gaze of the king "... should we make them go up in flames for real? Eh, Hound? What do you say? You could do it yourself, right? Would you like to have the same beautiful twisted expression of this dog, my lady? ".





	Winter will never come

**Author's Note:**

> I'm italian, so if you notice some mistakes please alert me!
> 
> Enjoy your reading and please leave a comment! A lot of kudos but not even one comment, come on guys <3 encourage writers
> 
> Thank you
> 
> Marta

Se had dreamed those walls every day of her life, those gigantic halls adorned with statues and banners, that pomp without end and that seemed without cost. Almost due. Almost inherent in the realm.

She had dreamed all his life of feeling like a princess, in a place like this. She knew that this was her place. A regal, noble place, as she imagined it, as septa Mordane always remembered her. Not like Winterfell, where stalactites were the most elegant thing among all that snow, those hard and dark stones, between the desolate frozen lands, on which the ballads told nothing but horrors.

Only Lady made the North worthy of charm, attractive to her.

Or at least, until King's Landing was revealed to her, revealing itself in all its monumental, icy cruelty.

 

"Hit her! Hit her again! "

Another slap. The umpteenth backflip came straight in Sansa's face, burning her cheeks, making her teeth chatter, wetting her eyes.

On the Iron Throne, Joeffrey, his face flushed, shouted orders and commands, and if only the contents and the grin with which he threw them had been different, then he might even have looked like a real king.

The throne room echoed with those snaps, with the girl's stifled groans, with the mad and screaming voice of the king.

The taste of blood went quickly to fill her mouth, the cascade of raven hair gave her the grace to cover her face, veiling it, concealing the aching and terrified expression of the young woman. The only comfort in the umpteenth punishment.

"What should I do with you, Sansa? How many times will your cheeks will burn? "

Jeoffrey grinned, shaking his head leaning on one hand, like a kindly father irritated by his daughter's constant whims and disobedience.

"Or maybe ..." a sudden flash caught the cerulean gaze of the king "... should we make them go up in flames for real? Eh, Hound? What do you say? You could do it yourself, right? Would you like to have the same beautiful twisted expression of this dog, _my lady_? ".

Jeoffrey trod on the appellation, as he always did, as if bringing to mind how stupid she had been to feel happy, unique, contented to hear him called her like that. His future bride, his promise, his princess, his lady. The same Lady he had killed.

The Hound was next to his master, his eyes straight ahead of him, without being turned to anything, and, at the same time, to everything. The concentration in his gray eyes was such that they seemed to sparkle. Sansa looked at him, noticing his hands clenched in a fist. If she had been closer she was sure she would hear the leather of the gloves screech.

"Oh, but I forgot ... the dog is afraid of fire. Another executioner will have to take care of stripping your snowy skin. "

The Hound clenched his jaw, and this time the sound of his teeth grinding was hearded by everyone. Like the jaws of a rabid dog that warned another one. But Jeoffrey was not a dog. He was a lion, according to his banner. And dogs don't attack lions.

"Maybe I will run a tournament to see who will win that honor."

After said that, Jeoffrey rose from the throne, leaving the room with a glittering look to Sansa. Everyone left, leaving her there on the ground. All but the Hound, who remained motionless.

"Please ... forgive my insolence ... and not give me the honor of having a tournament set up in my honor ...".

Sansa's was a whisper, which no one could hear anymore. But Sandor Clegane was still too close for his words to get lost in the echoes of the room. For the first time that day, he looked at her.

A hard look, the corner of the mouth raised for disgust and not just for the burning. But it was a look too long to contain only contempt. The Hound didn’t understand.

He went down the first step, still looking at her. Sansa shot with her eyes on him, terrified, fearing a new beginning of torture. She feared it every day, from him, the only one who had not yet harmed her. Perhaps Jeoffrey held him last. The worst would have reserved for her last ...

"Sometimes you really piss me off, kiddo."

Sansa looked at him confused, just before she looked down again. The closeness made her see the burn better and better, and she could not extend her gaze.

"Wh-what, Sir Clegane?"

"I already told you, fuck, I'm not one of the fucking, effeminate knights" the man growled, now standing before her, while she was still on the ground. The umpteenth that crushed her, only overpowering her. Anyway, Sansa was always crushed. By anyone. Always. Even from Arya, as a child.

"How do you do it? How can you look down, accept his ridicule, his affronts, without reacting, apologizing for non-existent faults, still bringing him respect? How can you not kill him in his sleep? How can you not be devoured by the blind rage you feel in abuses? How can you not meet him with a dagger, not to spit on him and his name? ".

Clegane was thrilled, angry, but a rage different from the one that possessed him in battle. He couldn’t understand. He would never have bowed his head like that. He would have lost his life so as not to suffer affronts.

But perhaps because he could afford it.

He found himself thinking about it the moment Sansa was doing it. How could she ever think of approaching the king without two hundred blades piercing her without making her exhale even the last breath?

"I am devoted to King Jeoffrey Baratheon. To my king. "

She answered, as always, without looking at him, with his weak but determined voice. Determined in those pantomimes to which fate had forced her.

The Hound bent to his knees, the look that was now at the same height as hers, but which could not be reflected. He could never, because she never looked at him. She always deprived him of the answer of his blue eyes. Again the gloves crunched in the leather, resting on bent knees, the thick black armor that didn't seem to prevent him in his movements in any way.

His disfigured, deformed face, the bone of the jaw sticking out of his flesh, those rosy worms of burnt flesh stretched, transfiguring into a mask of frustration, yearning for a response. In her eyes.

"You would do more honor to yourself by killing yourself than to be devoted to that son of a bitch."

Sansa jumped at that insult, not expecting such a direct affront to the king. But it lasted only a moment, the time before focusing on those words. This time it was she who clenched her jaw, raising her eyes, and the Hound almost winced inwardly. He had wanted them so much and now he was not ready. Now that look blinded by tears was looking at him, proud, without a shadow of fear, with pride. A rare moment when Sansa was again a Stark of Winterfell.

And he wasn't ready. She looked at him and he wasn't ready ...

"There is more honor in bowing one's head to a blow, rather than depriving oneself of his life."

Clegane continued to look at her, to look at how the pride faded in those blue eyes, drowning in tears, leaving the place again to the discomfort, to fear, to the knowledge of being helpless.

Because this was Sansa. Completely, totally defenseless.

A long silence between them forced her to lower her eyes, with resignation. It wasn't disgust at his sight that made her look down. It was the resignation of another blow.

Sandor shifted his gaze to her cheek, seeing the broken capillaries beneath his thin, delicate, white snow-like skin. The lower lip still wet with blood, broken. Red as sin. So beautiful and red that they should have been cleaned only with a kiss.

The Hound raised his gloved hand, running his thumb across the broken skin, stroking it, wiping it, regretting that he had not removed his glove, to be able to feel it with his skin.

Sansa winced, but didn't look at him again. A slap would have been expected. But why? He had never touched her to hurt her.

She could feel the warmth of his skin even under the thick skin that covered his hands. It seemed to burn her , that dirty, hot contact on the open wound. Jeoffrey was right: the Hound was burning her.

"The little bird has not only words learned by heart to sing. Every now and then, the wolf returns to growl. But it is good that the lions do not hear it, because now it is their golden cage that is inhabiting. And the Lannisters command their gold very, very well ".

Sandor stood up, blood on his thumb, and his gray eyes that hadn't been quenched by a last look.

He turned around, thinking that he had touched her. He growled softly, thinking that on the only occasion he had had to touch her lips, he had been hindered by a stupid, ruined glove.

But Sandor Clegane, the Hound, was not made for regrets.

Sansa watched him leave, the black cloak that almost didn't rub the ground, due to the height of the man. The lips that still burned, the eyes that dropped hot tears. She was stupid, everyone told her. And in her stupidity she couldn't tell if the Hound was on her side or not.

But a dog is always loyal to its owner.

 

It was evening, the sunset had long since passed, the dinner just ended. She had eaten practically nothing. Not with the clear eyes of Cersei and Jeoffrey that seemed to tear her. She was sure of it, one day they would have torn her to the table, dividing her meat from the North, and then boasted that they had such a delicious morsel within their reach.

Their father would not have been enough. His expressionless rolling head had been nothing but a meager snack for them. And from that moment Sansa had continued to ask if winter really would come.

That thought made her heart run cold, the only cold thing left in King's Landing since her father died, Arya disappeared, Jory Cassel has been killed. Nothing from the North remained. Sometimes she too had doubts that she had ever belonged to it. The Hound was right. It was she who looked like Jeoffrey's dog. No, his toy.

She froze, squeezing her eyes, pursing her lips and leaning her back against the wall, slipping slowly, rubbing the fine cloth suit along the hard stone, until she touched the ground, exploding with the touch in a million sobs. To death the king, to death the queen, to death all King's Landing and to death herself.

Contempt for herself consumed her, tearing her from within, while tears streaked her cheeks, without respite, without pause.

What if she is wrong? If death were better at all this? Had she regained honor and dignity with death? Had she regained herself?

It would not have been the first time the Hound was right. That anyone else was right compared to her.

Suddenly the tears stopped, leaving their shadows on the young Stark's cheeks.

A strange determination prompted her to get up, to turn towards an arcade not far from her. The evening air was cool, pleasant, a light wind carried away the heat of the day. Approaching the window overlooking the void, Sansa could see the stars, the black sky that surrounded her. Heaven of Summer, under which she was born and under which she would have died.

He would never have seen Winter. Even those would remain only stories, as were those about the knights.

She took off her sandals, untying the laces that tied them around her legs.

Her slender fingers tightened around the small arches. One foot rose up and settled on the cold, rough stone. Suddenly, her heart lightened. It didn't freeze anymore, but it wasn't even hot. It was simply full of that feeling of vertigo that one feels on emptiness. Vertigo that promised freedom.

That promise would not be betrayed. At least that, no ... that story would have been true. She was writing it.

She closed her eyes, shaking spasmodically the stone columns with the last forces she dedicated to life. One foot pressure, and she would have flown away. She would return to run with Lady.

One… Two… Three…

 

Two strong hands like pincers grabbed her arms, almost breaking them. Firm and uncertain at the same time, as if a wrong grip had made her fall down. Terribly afraid, as if the irreparable was about to happen. The only thing that kept her still anchored to the window and to life.

Those hands pulled her down, locking her with the arms in a lethal grip, depriving her of her breath and blocking her heartbeats. No one had ever held her this way. With such despair, such a need, such strength. She could almost hear her bones creak.

"No".

Said only a rough, low, hoarse voice. That voice. He said it after a while, almost in a whisper.

"No".

He wanted to repeat it, fearing that he had not heard, articulating more, clearly, with a voice that from faint became low, guttural.

"Never do it".

The contact between the two bodies was the deepest and most intimate that Sansa had ever felt. Not even his father had ever held her so. Again she felt herself burning, as if the fire on his face was spreading to her too, branching out on his back, rising to her face, incinerating her hair, burning her arms.

Suddenly the tears started flowing again, silent, on her cheeks, in the umpteenth foolish thing that happened to her in life.

"You said it. You have said that there is more honor in doing it. That would have been better. "

Had he lied to her too?

Clegane felt the beats accelerate, in a blind rage towards himself, towards what he had said. It was as if he had put her on that ledge. He began to breathe faster, his nostrils dilated, the mask of burns on his face shaking, as if it had a life of its own. It was his fault that Sansa was going to die.

Only afters he spoke did he realize how strong he was holding her, how his hands were clenched on her arms, his left on his right, his right on his left.

He had never realized how small, thin, delicate she was.

He loosened his grip, without leaving her again. The vision of his body hanging in the void was still strong. Suddenly, he began to feel his mind light, almost feverish.

The fear had made him completely forget the intoxication that all that wine had given him. Fear can get us out of ourselves. But sooner or later we are always forced to return.

Even Sansa began to sharpen her senses, breathing deeply, now that she could, the heavy alcoholic breath of the Hound. It was something much stronger than the summer wine. A smell so penetrating that she almost turned her head too. She pursed his lips in front of that smell, like remembering who she was, and who he was. The awareness took her, convincing her that the dog had done nothing but save the king's favorite pastime. But that grip ...

"If it isn't me, he'll do it for me. Sooner or later, everyone gets tired of their toys. And the king can have as many as he wants. You and I are just the umpteenth. "

Now she was halfway between a little bird and a wolf.

Sansa wanted the man to break off the contact. She felt herself burning, scalding, now that the man no longer had the armor on him, but only a light coat of leather, dressed in gray linen, with a tremendously strong smell of sweat, of man.

Sandor, the mind that was no longer lucid, which perhaps had never been, took a deep breath from her smell: the smell of primroses and wild must, of wind and honey. Smell of a woman, though she hardly ever looked like it.

His hands slid up, over her arms, not hugging them, just sliding over them, this time without gloves. He always imagined she was cold, Sansa Stark, princess of the North; but now it seemed to him just as if he had always imagined her: a frightened, lukewarm, trembling bird with broken wings mercilessly. Was this what she inspired him? Pity? Tenderness? Humanity?

She wasn't cold, no.

Sansa seemed paralyzed, without knowing how to react, how to respond to that contact, to that long, strange caress, which seemed almost to taste her. She didn't know if she would ever be used to such contact again, without being afraid of it. Without being afraid of anything, again and always.

She felt his heavy breath, which was not a man's breath, but the very breath of an animal that sniffs prey, that no longer wants to let it go. He didn't answer her. Perhaps he hadn't even listened to her. Perhaps he had no answers.

She felt his lips tracing her neck, not closing in on it, just walking along it, as his hands were doing with his arms. A fiery trail broke free on her skin, making her shiver, and the Hound heard her.

Clenching his jaws, he turned her suddenly, filled with alcohol: a vision from just before, impotence and, at the same time, the omnipotence he felt with her.

"Did I disgust you, little bird? You wish I were your Knight of Flowers, didn't you? But you haven't learned yet that all those shit about knights are false, aren't they? No. You stop at a face, a detail, an appearance, and, as you've always done, you find yourself in trouble, in the hands of sadistic kings who want to make you only doll to break in their hands. Maybe you're in trouble again, little bird. Maybe this time you're right ”.

Girding her by the arms he carried her against the wall, without slamming her, without hurting her, always showing that bit of delicacy he had had with her, almost without realizing it. He noticed her wet cheeks, and that vision made him squeeze his heart, hiding it, making him hate himself and her. Himself and that mark he wore on half of his face.

Sansa was trapped, crushed, in that corridor nobody would come to save her. Besides, who would have ever had the interest in doing that?

She placed her hands on the Hound’s chest, pressing imperceptibly, finding a wall of muscles under her palms, which looked like those of a child compared to the wide shoulders of the man.

She looked into his eyes. She looked at the one that had miraculously been saved from the fire, gray, almost black on that moonless night. Surrounded by fleshless skin, rosy and raw, impossible to heal, deformed and decomposed. And for once she didn't look away. She waited, as she always did. As she had always done, she waited for events.

Clegane had never had her face so close, her deep, desperate, sad and lonely blue eyes. Never before had he seen the desolation, the terror that possessed them. The same look he was sure he had with fire. He was no stranger to fear, as much as he could tell the opposite to himself and to the world. There was no sword that could save him from that blind and deaf terror.

For the first time, it was Sandor Clegane who lowered the head in front of Sansa Stark. To her mouth. The cut was still visible on the lower lip, full, red, swollen due to the wound. The memory of that same morning was clouded by the wine, the sensation he had felt under his gloved hand, was almost dissolved. And to think that this was the intent of the hangover.

But now he wanted it more than ever. He wanted to hear how those lips were. The lips that Jeoffrey had kissed, that he had offended and then wounded.

Sansa almost foresaw what was about to happen, with her heart slowly stopping. For once, she wouldn't close her eyes, she wouldn't look down. She would have confronted him, to whom many men had surrendered without even trying.

What came was very different from how Sansa had imagined it. No kiss came. Clegane's left hand had risen on her face, and what had already happened happened again: the rough, calloused thumb of the man passed over her lips, too big to stroke just one.

Hands on arms.

Mouth on the neck.

Thumb on the lips.

He would never have thought of tasting her like that, the little bird of the Summer Islands that came from the coldest and deepest Winter.

He had tasted, devoured women. Whores, raped girls, he didn’t even remember them. Too many and too insignificant to remember the face. Why did that thumb on her lips give him more of his cock immersed in a hot pussy? Why did he first notice how soft a woman's lips could be? Soft, muffled, red and warm.

He frowned, expression lines formed on his forehead, while a long, slow sigh filled him, emptying him immediately afterwards.

"This is not how you will fly, little bird".

It seemed like a promise.

The thumb went up to caress her cheek, the white cheekbone, with more delicacy than his hand could be capable of. Locking his jaw one last time, the Hound left her there, next to that window that had almost been his death frame. His heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor, as he walked away, swallowed up in the shadow, which covered him with a new armor.

Sansa watched him go, her skin boiling with heat. For his touch or shame? Or both?

Sometimes it seemed to her that the Hound could share the infernal flames that had been printed on him with others.

Why didn't she burn too, then? Why did he only feel the heat and not the burn?

Placing a hand on her cheek, she breathed deeply the evening air. Perhaps because it came from the North. Perhaps because the flames could not melt it, the North.


End file.
